Incubus
by Feather-of-Maat
Summary: She locks her bedroom door at night, but that doesn't keep him out. He can walk through walls, after all. Sylar/Heidi, 5YG-verse.


**Disclaimer:** _Heroes_ and its characters belong to a bunch of people who aren't me.

**Author's Notes:** I'm actually in the process of working on a somewhat longer Sylar/Heidi fic (5,000 words and counting), but this plot bunny popped into my head while I was writing the longer fic. And as always, I bow to the whims of the plot bunnies.

This fic takes place after "Five Years Gone" and assumes that Sylar survived his battle with Peter. Technically, I'm not sure if post-5YG fic is even possible, since I'm a little fuzzy on when alternate timelines cease to exist, so I'll label this an AU just to be safe.

- - -

At first, she thinks they're just dreams.

She tosses and turns most nights, twisting in the sheets, and wakes with the hazy memory of hands touching her, shadowed fingers brushing against her skin. The hands never connect to a face—at least, not one she can see, no matter how hard she strains. When morning comes, she pushes away the uneasiness lurking at the back of her mind, telling herself it's to be expected that her subconscious would play tricks on her. She's been through a lot lately, after all.

She begins to lock her bedroom door at night, all the same. She tells herself it's not paranoia; it's just a precaution. But the hands continue anyway, their touch incessant and insatiable, reinforcing in her mind that it _must_ just be a dream.

Until she jerks awake one night and finds she's not alone in the room.

"Shhh," says the figure standing at her bedside, dressed all in black like a child's nightmare come to life. This time she sees as well as feels the hand brushing her face. "Don't scream."

The soft command is redundant. An unseen force constricts her chest and throat, making it difficult to breathe, let alone utter a sound. She struggles, gasping, fists clenching around the sheets, until finally the pressure loosens as he moves to sit on the edge of her bed.

She can just make out his face in the dusky light of her bedroom. It's the first time she's ever actually _seen_ it, yet she knows his features instantly and unmistakably.

His lips curve slightly as he watches recognition flash in her eyes. "Hello, Heidi."

His voice seems different than she imagined—softer, almost mellow, not harsh or abrasive like one might expect from a serial killer.

"I don't say this very often," he continues, a glint of amusement appearing in his eyes, "but you don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Why are you here?" she asks, trying to keep her voice from quavering and not quite succeeding. _Haven't you already done enough to me?_

He doesn't answer immediately, at least not in words. Instead, he reaches out, and his hand trails over her collarbone and down her body, stopping just beneath her left breast. She instinctively tries to recoil and fails—the invisible force that prevented her scream is now pinning her to the bed, a ruthlessly efficient restraint. He waits patiently as she realizes the futility of her struggle and stops straining against the telekinetic bonds, panting with exertion and fear and anger.

"Did you know I used to do this every night, when I was president?" he says, his tone almost conversational. "It was the only time I could stop pretending to be Nathan. I would listen to your heartbeat to make sure you were asleep." He shifts a little, and absently lifts his other hand to brush her hair back from her face, the gesture almost akin to tenderness. "I've found that everyone's heartbeat is a little different—like fingerprints, almost. I can identify you just by the sound of your heart, if I listen closely enough."

As he talks, his thumb begins to lazily stroke the side of her breast, back and forth, and his eyes seem almost black as he looks at her through half-closed lids. She shudders in revulsion and dread, trying desperately once again to wrench away from him, but her body is still completely under his control. His power immobilizes her—_paralyzes her_—just as inexorably as her damaged spine once did. Panic bursts in her chest and her pulse spikes, her heart beginning to slam itself against his fingers.

His hand falls away from her body, the movement sudden, as though her wild heartbeat scorched his skin. "I told you not to be afraid of me," he says.

She stares at him. The darkness has left his eyes, and he looks almost…_wounded. _Vulnerable, even, as though he's a different person from the monster who killed her husband.She wonders if it's just a trick of the moonlight playing on his face.

He stands, pushing himself off her bed and moving out of the light. Just before the darkness obscures his features, she sees his expression change again, notices a flash of _something_ in his eyes—anger? Agitation?

She doesn't get a chance to identify the emotion. The pressure begins to build in her chest again, the invisible hand tightening around her lungs with torturous slowness, as though she's fallen into the ocean and is sinking towards the depths. She tries not to panic, knowing that fear will only make breathing more difficult.

It doesn't matter. Pressure becomes pain as her chest continues to collapse on itself, and bright lights seem to flash before her eyes like a miniature fireworks show. Vaguely, she becomes aware of the choking noises rattling at the back of her throat.

She knows now what it feels like to be suffocated to death. At this particular moment, she can't imagine a more horrible way to die. Yet even as the blackness begins to cloud her vision, she feels the terror start to give way to an almost welcome sense of resignation. _Maybe I'll see Nathan again…_

Then, without warning, the pressure crushing her chest vanishes completely, and air rushes into her lungs with an almost violent force. She can hear herself coughing and sobbing simultaneously.

Only after several seconds have passed does she realize that he's now leaning over her, his hands at either side of her head, fingers in her hair. She can feel his lips moving against her temple, but the roaring in her ears and the ragged sound of her own breathing overwhelm his words. She can only make out his final phrase, his voice barely above a whisper: "Sleep well, Heidi."

Then he's gone, melting through the door like it isn't there, and she can move once more.

She doesn't sleep again for a long, long time.


End file.
